


Laughing Oliphaunt, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, General, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Good pacing, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Military, War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Experimental, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Mythic/Poetic, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2004-11-05
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the twenty-ninth of Nárië in 2885, the Haradrim forces were defeated at the Crossing of Poros and a legendary tavern acquired its name.</p><p>On the twenty-ninth of Nárië in 3018, the eastern shore of Osgiliath fell to the Enemy as the Ring War loomed, and a group of weary soldiers returned to this same tavern on the night of its anniversary.</p><p>Experimental writing style. Slightly AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_"...[The Guard] had often done this – in the past – the nights after returning from Osgiliath, the nights when a comrade had fallen, or when a particular battle had been won. The Men loved Boromir for it, that the battlefield’s captain would sit with them, drink with them, jest with them. And Boromir sometimes did it because he too needed the respite, or sometimes he did it because he knew the Men needed to see him there, amidst them, even when he was so weary from battle he thought his limbs should fail him ere he reached his bed…"_

Adraefan, Chapter 25

* * *

_The Laughing Oliphaunt_ earned its name in the days of Túrin II, when the ancient Steward, great-grandfather to Denethor, defeated the Haradrim at the Crossing of Poros in the year 2885 of the Third Age. Together with King Folcwine of Rohan, the Haradrim forces were beat back from the surging river, and it was said that the great war-beasts, those massive oliphaunts, laughed in the retreat. At least, that is the story that is told – the strange mystery of these laughing beasts, the joyful shouts of Gondor and Rohan, the trumpets and crashing river.

Every twenty-ninth of Nárië, the anniversary of the Poros Crossing was celebrated, and _The Laughing Oliphaunt_ became a center of drunken revelry. It had ever been a military tavern, filled to the brim with Guardsmen and Rangers and archers and visiting Rohirrim and sometimes even a few of those mysterious mercenaries from North. And when the evenings grew warm and hot Nárië arrived, this tiny tavern with the low ceiling, tucked away in a hidden alley on the fourth circle, became positively packed.

Today was the twenty-ninth of Nárië in the year 3018 of the Third Age. Today Boromir, the first son of Denethor, Captain-General of the armies and defender of Osgiliath, was returning to Minas Tirith straight from battle. He rode with his Guard – his second-in-command, Beregond, his knight-errant, Amlaith, his Guardsmen, ginger-haired Ragnor, tall Eomund and young Iorlas, as well as his younger brother, Faramir. They came straight from the ruined city of Osgiliath, as the fires still burned and the field still glistened with blood. They rode past the Rammas Echor, galloped down the Pelennor, thundered down the main road leading to the city.

Up above, the sun burned red against the heavy thunderheads encroaching from the East. A midsummer thunderstorm.

This errand from Osgiliath barreled in through the Great Gate, clopping up the first circle, the second circle, the third circle, up, up, up, grinding to an unexpected halt in the fourth circle. A messenger inadvertently intercepted them there, and both parties jerked their reigns back, the horses neighing.

“My Lord Boromir!” The messenger cried.

“Ho, make way! I must meet with the Lord Steward!”

Grim-faced, pale and weary. Anxious. The Men still wore the stains of battle, garments darkened by blood and filth. Hair mangled from wind and chaos. Sweat. Yet the clean-shaven messenger shook his head at the group.

“My apologies, sirs, the Lord Steward left for Dol Amroth this morning, where he intends to spend Loëndë. He did not plan to return to Minas Tirith ere the first of Urimë.”

Boromir swore sharply. He looked back, scanned the street they had just flown down, exhaled, finally pinched the bridge of his nose. The others – Faramir, Beregond, Amlaith, Ragnor, Eumond and Iorlas – all sat, urging their frightened, agitated steeds to still. For the horses kept stepping forward, backward, shaking their heads with nervous whinnies.

Finally, Boromir looked up.

“Messenger, what was your business?”

“I was to Pinnath Gelin with the letters, my lord.”

“Find some other charge for Pinnath Gelin. You must follow instead the Belfalas road. Go in haste, and tell the Lord Steward Osgiliath is in dire need. Tell him the bridge has fallen and the eastern bank is overrun. Go!”

“Aye, my lord!” the messenger pulled at his reigns, the horse bucked back slightly, snorting. “But tomorrow afternoon is the earliest he will return!”

Boromir nodded curtly and the messenger was off. They listened to the loud clopping as he went speeding down the fourth circle’s main street.

Once the messenger was out of sight, the group remained still, silent. Watching the sun’s warm glow burn the taller buildings as it set behind Mount Mindolluin. Listening to the final cries of mothers beckoning their children indoors as evening fell. A wheelbarrow pushed along by an old merchant. A cat loping across the street, dodging away from a slow-moving wain. Minas Tirith.

The Men remained hesitating, watching their Captain. Yet Boromir was still looking on, down the fourth circle and towards the arch leading to the third. Finally, noticing them again, he rumbled low:

“Very well. The Valar work against us today. Nothing can be done until tomorrow.” With grim, heavy-hooded eyes, he glanced at the others. “Go home, my friends. Rest.”

In truth, each heart was still thundering too loud to even consider sleep. Their recent trials in Osgiliath had taken a heavy toll. For they had all seen the Nazgûl, had all felt the unearthly chill piercing their hearts, had all heard the high-pitched wail – the wail of pure terror – searing through their minds to leave them shuddering. They had all seen Boromir – their stalwart Captain-General, Boromir the Bold – tremble with plain fear as he led the last company over the bridge. And the rain of arrows, thundering down over them, a veritable curtain, so that the sky became deadly. And the rushing Anduin waters, filling their ears and noses and eyes, as they felt their companions drown beside them.

No, none could sleep, not so soon. The battle still raged in their hearts.

Indeed, young Iorlas was shivering visibly. Faramir’s pale mask had gone blank ever since the winged terror had passed over them. Older Amlaith was clenching his horse’s reigns so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Beregond was watching Boromir with red-rimmed eyes. And Eomund and Ragnor were both breathing hard, as if they had just run the length of their journey on foot.

Boromir sighed.

“Aye, I know. It will take some time to shake away that darkness.”

“Indeed…” Iorlas whispered softly. “I cannot bear to go inside so soon.”

Soft murmurs of agreement.

“ _The Laughing Oliphaunt_ is nearby,” the older, bearded Amlaith put in. “I think we could all use a good drink. My lord?”

The others looked to Boromir, waiting for his approval. He nodded silently. And so they all dismounted, led their horses to the nearest public stable. Yet none would remove their swords, restless and agitated as they were, and so all wore their scabbards. They did not speak.

The last orange rays of sunlight slipped in between the buildings. Pollen in the wind. The smell of a summer evening. The fountains flowing with fresh, clean water. A group of laughing children ran past. And so, with Boromir leading them on, the Men walked down the main street until they reached a thin alleyway. They slipped into this, one by one, walked single-file until it widened so that two could walk abreast. A dank current of air swept past them. And there, creaking on a hinge, was a roughly hewn sign: _The Laughing Oliphaunt_. Music and laughter could be heard from inside.

“Ho, what noise?” the lanky Guardsman, Eomund, asked softly.

“Ah, we have forgotten, sirs,” Ragnor ceded. “’Tis the twenty-ninth of Nárië.” He grinned. “ _The Laughing Oliphaunt_ celebrates its namesake today.”

This earned a few wan smiles from the other Guardsmen. And so they entered.


	2. The First Swimmer (Iorlas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the twenty-ninth of Nri in 2885, the Haradrim forces were defeated at the Crossing of Poros and a legendary tavern acquired its name.

Iorlas could still see the black figure, burning white against his closed eyelids. He had made the mistake of looking. Even with the cries, the desperate cries: _Avert your eyes! Do not look upon him!_ Iorlas, overtaken by a perverse curiosity, had looked up – just in time to see that figure, that winged beast, swoop overhead with another shrill cry. And he had screamed then, from utter and complete fear, stumbling away, forgetting his sword and his shield and the raining arrows above him and the howling Men around him and the crumbling bridge beneath him. And he had stumbled straight into the Lord Boromir, who had spun around wordlessly, pale and sweating, and, without a moment’s hesitation, had grabbed Iorlas and flung him into the water as the bridge fell apart beneath them.

And then all the battle had turned silent, and Iorlas had struggled madly against his armor, against the other bodies in the water. All chaos, eyes closed, but he could feel others around him, writhing and sinking and struggling in their final throes. And the arrows spitting into the river – rushes of current as they cut through – death everywhere – while he choked and swallowed mouthfuls of the foul water. Foul water – water tainted with the iron blood of Men and the poison of orcs – tainted with the defecation of fear – tainted with a thousand struggling deaths.

He had loosened his breastplate, his limbs moving in frantic, instinctive haste. Survival. Survive. _Swim! Eru, swim!_ As soon as he felt the heavy armor fall away, he had widened his arms, kicked his legs, struggled forward. And he had pushed down those near him, careless, desperate, not knowing or caring if they were fellow Men or the Enemy. Driven on only by his need to breathe, as his lungs burned, and his vision darkened, and the noise – the noise – the noise: _Crash! Crash!_ Bodies slamming into the water, hurtling in. Explosions. Huge pieces of stone smashing into the river – pieces of the bridge – enormous slabs tearing through. Iorlas felt the suction pulling him, caught a blurred flash of a stone shooting into a Man next to him – and he heard the watery scream as the Man was pulled back down into the darkness beneath – and Iorlas struggled against the water pulling him down with him – and his only thought – his only thought was to swim for his life…

He had awakened to darkness. Lying against a muddy bank, shivering uncontrollably. And with consciousness, the bile and river water flooded up and he vomited. Beyond, further upriver, he could still hear the sounds of battle – the high-pitched wail, the roar of Mordor beasts. And there – in this living darkness, where the sun had fled, and he listened to the drowning screams of his comrades, and he could see arrow-riddled corpses floating down the Anduin, nudging him as he lay half in the water – there, in this hellish place, Iorlas had wept. And there the Lord Faramir had found him, pulled him up, led him away from the river…

“Iorlas?”

Iorlas awoke from his thoughts to see that they were seated in a private booth by the back. _The Laughing Oliphaunt._ Cheers and revelry. Music. His older brother, Beregond, was seated next to him, arms crossed, leaning forward. Amlaith sat to his left. The older Man’s huge, frazzled beard quirked in a smile as he spoke with the young barmaid. They were ordering the drinks. Iorlas had not noticed.

Iorlas looked over the table. Ragnor was smoking his pipe, nervously chewing the end. Eomund sat staring at the table. The Lord Faramir sat, cross-legged, pulling at his beard, eyes blank. The Lord Boromir slouched forward, his exhaustion all too visible, yet when he met eyes with Iorlas, he smiled.

“Iorlas?” Beregond asked again.

Iorlas turned back to his older brother. “Aye?”

“What will you have?”


	3. The Aging Knight (Amlaith)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the twenty-ninth of Nri in 2885, the Haradrim forces were defeated at the Crossing of Poros and a legendary tavern acquired its name.

Amlaith was the oldest of the group. Heavy, barrel-chested. He had seen his fair share of horrors in battle. He had fought for many years at Osgiliath under Lord Boromir, though he began his career in Pelargir. And he had seen young Men die – he had seen young corpses, bloated green; limbs strewn about muddy fields; filmy, unseeing eyes staring at the sky. He had smelled the stink of rotting flesh. He had tasted orc blood on his tongue as it sprayed forth in battle.

Yet the cry of Nazgûl he had never heard before.

They often spoke of it. Other soldiers, those who had heard it, who had traveled nearer to Minas Morgul, they had tried to describe it. But none could accurately depict the sound – that inhuman wail, that shrieking fear – as it twisted through the heart and raised the hair on the back of the neck. Not until one heard that noise could one ever say they knew true fear.

Amlaith had not looked. He had known better than to look. But the sound alone was enough to chill his blood, to forestall his rebellious war cry, to loosen his grip on the sword.

Amlaith had led the first company over the bridge, at Lord Boromir’s urging. He had saddled the nearest horse he could find, raised his sword, and bellowed in his enormous voice, _To me! To me! First and second! To me! Retreat! Pull back to the west bank!_

And the swarms of Men had flocked to him, yet Amlaith caught sight of also the poor souls hacked down as they ran. Orcs snarling, spitting, burying their rusted swords deep. And the rain had come forth then – the rain of arrows – nothing as he had ever seen before. Everywhere, everywhere, they were everywhere. And then – _there!_ – the cry, the cry of a Nazgûl as it swept forward, riding its Fell Beast, great black wings billowing out, and the smell – the smell of death – pushed down in a vile current of air, so that Amlaith had used all his will not to retch, all his will not to drop his sword and flee, all his will to lead the Men on, over the bridge.

And the bridge itself – tilting and swaying – pieces of stone crumbling away as the catapults fired into it. And Amlaith had cried, _Onward! Onward! Retreat!_ just as half the bridge exploded outwards, sending Men flying, ruined marble up, up, up, soaring, and then smashing down – _crash!_ – into the river and into the city. And the dust and the screams and the blood streaming down his brow, Amlaith could not see, yet he grabbed at whoever he could find, and pushed them on, all the while urging, urging, urging, _Go! Go! Go!_ And one of the young Men he was jerking forward by the shoulder had received an arrow to the neck, so that his blood spurted out in a high arching stream and blinded Amlaith further and…

“They say the oliphaunts laughed because the Haradrim mistreated them, and so they rejoiced in their defeat.”

Amlaith looked over to the younger Man at his side: Ragnor. The ginger-haired Man stared at his ale, chewed his pipe.

“Know you the story, Amlaith?” Ragnor asked. “’Tis a riddle, I think.”

“Nay, I do not know,” Amlaith replied, sipped his mead. “’Tis only a fable.”

Ragnor smiled bitterly. “If horses may scream with fear, then an oliphaunt may laugh.”

They fell silent.


	4. The First Across (Eomund)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the twenty-ninth of Nri in 2885, the Haradrim forces were defeated at the Crossing of Poros and a legendary tavern acquired its name.

Eomund had been in the first company to reach the west bank. He had led his horse over, swiping at the passing orcs with his mighty broadsword, howling at them in bloodlust and fury. When his entire existence had tightened to this grim city, this grey, dead city he struggled to defend, he was not entirely frightened when the news came of the surprise attack. A sudden orc assault was not so uncommon. And he had simply assumed they had all followed, assumed his Men were behind him, and the Lord Boromir was maintaining the bridge while Lord Faramir’s archers made quick business of these vile orcs. It was a routine.

When he had found a clear space, free of the fighting, filled only with dead bodies, he had turned his horse around, looked back. He was in a tiny piazza. Corpses here and there. Rubble. And further on, over the ruined buildings, he saw smoke billowing forth and fire licking away at the ever-darkening sky. Screams. The harsh twang of loosened catapults – followed by explosions – more screams. Eomund saw that he was alone; the small company of Men who fought with him were gone. When he trotted back, away from the piazza and back into an ancient street leading to the bridge – the cries growing ever louder as he returned to the battle’s center – he saw one of his Men, on his back, staring up, dead. Arrows in the chest. And then further on, another, another, and another.

And as he began to despair, thinking his entire company lost, Eomund had caught sight of a bloodied Man stumbling forward. The Man had been covered from top to bottom in filth, and he had been barely recognizable as a Man rather than an orc. He had been clutching his face, where blood streamed from an injured eye. And Eomund had called to him:

“Ho! Where are the others? What of the eastern bank?”

And in that moment, just as the soldier had looked up, confused and delirious, a great cry went up. But such a cry! Tearing through the sky with all the malice and hate that threatened to swallow Gondor – and the human screams had grown louder then, terrified – and Eomund had heard a great horn being blown. The Horn of Gondor. Urgent.

He had urged his horse forward and gone barreling back towards the bridge, yelling, _Gondor! Gondor!_ , pushing through the tide of arriving soldiers. And he had arrived just in time to see the rain of arrows descending from the eastern bank, and the final boulder smashing into the very middle of the bridge, and Eomund had caught a glimpse of Lord Boromir pushing young Iorlas out into the water before he himself dived and all the souls fell with the crumbling bridge – trapped and screaming as they tumbled – chaos in the water…

_Enough of that now._

Eomund sipped his mead, inhaled the scent of Ragnor’s pipe. Hours ago, and Eomund had sworn half these Men had been killed, and yet, here now, Iorlas and Beregond sat across from him, speaking quietly, while the Lord Boromir drank and old Amlaith watched the crowd. And it was too loud in _The Laughing Oliphaunt_ to hear each other properly, so Eomund contented himself with letting the memories slip away – letting the ale perform its duty and rid him of that sight – that sight of young Iorlas slamming into the water – that sight of the half-blinded Man – that sight of the bridge, and all the eastern bank of Osgiliath, caving in, overtaken. And how the river water ran red, while bodies thrashed in it, choking it…

He took another swallow of mead, finishing it, looked back over his shoulder. _The Laughing Oliphaunt_ was full of merriment. Laughter, singing, jigs. Feeling the buzz of alcohol in his ears, Eomund pushed back from the table and stood.

“Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I go to find a willing wench.”


	5. The Fourth Swimmer (Ragnor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the twenty-ninth of Nri in 2885, the Haradrim forces were defeated at the Crossing of Poros and a legendary tavern acquired its name.

Ragnor remembered the water flooding his nose and lungs. He remembered the river’s current pulling him away from the battle. He remembered clinging to a lifeless orc, thinking it was another Man, until realizing what it was and letting go, splashing away, disgusted. He remembered crawling out of the Anduin, very far from the ruined remains of the bridge, so far that he could but dimly see the fires of Osgiliath, could just barely hear the cries of battle.

The terror of that foul beast remained with him still, though, and so when he crawled out of the river, surprised and exhausted to find himself alive and relatively unscathed, he had taken a moment to press his face into the mud and scream. Scream from the absolute fear, and the desperation of the situation, and that horrible Nazgûl cry still ringing in his ears.

Once he had emptied his lungs of all the water and all the horror, he had begun to half-walk, half-crawl along the riverbank, trembling, moving quietly for he had no sword, searching for any who may have survived with him. Whispering quietly, calling the names of his companions. Nearly hysterical. _Hi, hi… ho, speak, if you can… Lord Amlaith? Ho… ho, if you live, speak now… Lord Boromir?_

After hours of searching, he had found none and had despaired. He had become disoriented. Nausea. And just as he had begun to panic, not knowing what to do or where to go, whether to return to the burning city, or whether Osgiliath had fallen and it was useless to return, he had heard a low moan.

“Who’s there?”

An inarticulate sound replied. A Man’s voice. Familiar.

And so Ragnor had gone forth, stumbling, frantic, searching for the sound. For the sun was hidden away completely, and all was dark, and Ragnor had lost all sense of time completely. He had followed the sound and, feeling around in the dark, found a Man lying against the river. When his fingers touched a smooth, cool surface – lightly curved – moving down, a baldric – he had immediately recognized the shadowy figure.

“Lord Boromir?”

And…

Boromir now sat beside Ragnor, moving silently to his sixth ale. The Captain had spoken little in the hours they had spent in _The Laughing Oliphaunt_ , even as the others’ tension was increasingly relieved as the night wore on and the alcohol flowed.

Red-haired Ragnor, Ragnor the Jesting they called him. And so, feeling the need to talk, but not knowing what to say, just anything to dissolve the silence at his elbow, anything to rid himself of the vivid flashes, Ragnor perked up.

“Captain?”

“Mmm?”

“Know you the story of the iron-smith from Belfalas?”

Heavy eyes warming. “Nay, I do not.”

“Ah, it’s a good one, though perhaps Lord Faramir should not hear this, ere he will blush…”


	6. The Second-in-Command (Beregond)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the twenty-ninth of Nri in 2885, the Haradrim forces were defeated at the Crossing of Poros and a legendary tavern acquired its name.

“Go, Beregond! Go! Sound the retreat – tell the Men to fall back to the west bank – the bridge is taken, Beregond – go! I will hold the rear!”

And Beregond had hesitated, as they ran through the streets, their armor clanging, sprinting, with the sound of heavy feet – a thousand, _more than a thousand, Eru, how many_ – the fast, booted tread of a thousand orcs flooding in from the East. And the darkness – the blue light – Beregond remembered seeing Lord Boromir grow pale when he heard the first runners’ news, when he saw the first flash of a shadowy figure, far off, flying through the inky sky. The shadowy figure – illuminated from behind by a crack of red Mordor lightening.

The Lord Faramir had intercepted them then, dodging Men as they ran, weaving through the crowd, and the two brothers had not had time enough to hold but the most furious of conversations –

“Brother!”

“They come in from the King’s Street and further south – thousands, I could not say – I’ve set the archers – but too many, brother, too many – pull back…!”

And then the first catapults had started firing. Beregond recalled the sudden explosion above him, as the tower not two streets over crumbled, shattered, and he remembered how his chest swelled with a sudden fire, with a sudden fear, as he remembered Iorlas had gone off in that direction not ten minutes ago.

Beregond and Boromir had lingered by the back, urging all the others forward, sometimes running backwards, stumbling, swords raised, as they caught quick blurs of orcs arriving. Orcs, orcs, orcs everywhere – suddenly they appeared – streaming in through every alley and skeletal building – swarming over the low walls which divided the streets – uttering their bestial cries, calling to each other, hissing. And Beregond remembered how he and Boromir had held their free hands behind them, shouting at the others to run, to _get to the bridge! Go! Run!_

And then, and then, and then…

Sword sticking rusted against orc neck black blood spurting acidic stains and split-second glimpses of his Captain screaming in defiance hacking against the splitting heads while Beregond had pulled his sword away from an orc only to push it through another and then…

The high-pitched wail, the high-pitched fear – and all the blood in his veins and in his heart had turned icy – while, for just a moment, his body went rigid and he nearly lost himself to terror – and he had despaired then, wondering where his own brother was, where Iorlas was and…

“Beregond – _hic_ – would you kindly move so that I – _mmph_ – may go… eh… _relieve_ myself?”

Beregond turned to his brother, Iorlas, who sat red-faced and grinning beside him. The younger Man had twisted his torso, gripping the table with one hand and the bench with the other, clearly intent on leaving the booth. With a slight smile, Beregond obliged, squeezing himself out of the booth and allowing Iorlas room to leave. His younger brother clapped him on the shoulder as he left.

“Try the King’s Brandy…” Iorlas slurred. “’Tis quite strong.”

And then he was gone, disappeared into the crowd. Beregond turned back to the table. How long had they been here? Enough, it seemed, for some to be visibly drunk – Ragnor, Eomund, even the Lord Boromir – while the others who had been rigidly taciturn during the journey from Osgiliath – Faramir, Amlaith, himself – allowed themselves to chat lightly and laugh.

Beregond shifted in his seat, edged towards Amlaith. The heavy Guardsman was laughing at something Eomund was saying.

“…and _Folcwine_ knew nothing of this!” Eomund blurted, slamming the table with his bare palm.

Amlaith roared with laughter.

From further off, from somewhere within the crowd gathered in the tavern’s main room, a cry went up: “A song! A song! The Laughing Oliphaunt song!”

And Beregond smiled wide, glanced at the others, who were also laughing and grabbing their mugs, preparing, and so all stood, goblets raised high, to sing the ancient song:

_Let them run! Let them charge!_  
Hear them laugh, “Free the barge!”  
Burn them high! Burn them wide!  
Hear them laugh, “Ol’phaunt hide!”…


	7. The Captain (Boromir)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the twenty-ninth of Nri in 2885, the Haradrim forces were defeated at the Crossing of Poros and a legendary tavern acquired its name.

Boromir was drunk. Thank Eru, he was drunk. And thank Eru Faramir was here, for Faramir held himself in check and could maintain control of the Men should things get out of hand. But Boromir… With the stiff, sore muscles, the cracked hands and unwashed garments, that stabbing anxiety which had pained his gut since they had ridden away from Osgiliath, with all of this threatening to break him, he knew that one empty, oblivious night was what he needed. Desperately needed. And the Men needed his presence here as well, these few who had swam the Anduin with him, fought through the thickest of Osgiliath with him. They needed it, and he needed it. And so he drank his King’s Brandy, listening to the others sing drunkenly, letting all the tightly wound tension within him slowly unravel.

He would speak with the Steward tomorrow. Tomorrow. But now, now he had a few hours of freedom, a few precious hours.

Amidst all the noise and blurred movement, Boromir leaned against his brother. Faramir turned to him, and Boromir smiled.

“Well?”

“Well?” Faramir returned, “Well what?”

“’Tis been long since we have seen each other.”

“Aye, it has. Three years.”

“What of Ithilien?”

Faramir shrugged, his gaze somewhat distant. “The Shadow grows and we fight against it. Little has changed.”

Boromir downed his brandy, placed the glass heavily on the table, began to pour himself another. His arm was jostled slightly by one of Eomund’s grander gesticulations, and the blond Man apologized immediately with a giggling, _Ah, f’give me, m’lord…_ , before turning back to his own conversation. In truth, Boromir cared not for the spilled drink. He simply poured a little more, recapped the bottle, leaned back with full glass in hand.

“You are not in the mood to talk, brother,” Boromir rumbled with a sly grin. He took a long swallow.

“Nay…” Faramir mused absently. He was clearly only half-listening.

Boromir watched him for a moment, dizzy with drink, and eventually shrugged his acquiescence. Let his brother have his silence. He was too weary and too intoxicated to consider pressing for more details. Instead, other needs focused his attention. Nudging Faramir aside, Boromir squeezed out of his seat and stood. On his feet, he swayed, feeling considerably more drunk. He braced himself against the back of a chair, squinted against the blur, and began to make his way clumsily through the crowd.

A few people recognized him as he passed – at one point, he found himself embracing a burly Man from Pelargir – later he stumbled and nearly fell – but soon enough he was out of _The Laughing Oliphaunt_ and into the silent street. A warm, summer wind blew through the alley, carrying away some of the stale smell of alcohol, refreshing Boromir and clearing his head. He went reeling towards the far side of the alleyway. Dark cobblestones, uneven and illuminated only by the light from the houses above him. He caught his foot on something, nearly stumbled, swore harshly, carelessly.

Up ahead, he saw a figure approaching. Young Iorlas. The young Man’s dark, curly locks clung to his brow, and he smiled blearily as Boromir neared him.

“Captain.” Iorlas bowed his head slightly.

Boromir laughed, grabbed the younger Man by the neck and kissed his brow. He then shook him by the shoulder affectionately.

“Good Iorlas… Your brother desires to return home.”

“Aye, ‘tis – ‘tis late. I shall go with him.”

Boromir cupped his cheek, clapped lightly. “Good boy. Off to bed. A good night’s rest, it’s what we all need.”

Iorlas chuckled, nodded. And as they parted, both stumbling in opposite directions, Iorlas called back to Boromir:

“Watch yourself about a hundred paces off, my lord. There is an unpleasant site.”

Boromir nodded, raised his hand to show he had heard the warning.

And soon enough he found himself leaning lopsided against the alley’s wall, one arm propped up to hold him steady, relieving himself. And once he was finished, he leaned forward slightly, swallowed back a wave of nausea, felt the sweat on his brow, worked to close his breeches with one hand.

And that stubborn image, persistent:

_Run! Run!_

Arrows clattering; a sickening crunch. Orcs – hurtling over walls, crawling along the spires, ululating harsh commands – earning a response from their leader – from Boromir’s main foe – the Nazgûl cries, screaming loud, its screeching wail – piercing the heart. And the sword, Boromir hurtles it around, turns, sprints, pumping his thighs until they burn sweet fire and the sweat pours down his face and into his armor, dampening everything, so that the grip on his sword slips – and and and…

Go! Go! To the bridge!

Swarming figures, indistinct. Arrows clattering against his armor. An arrow wedged into the gap under his arm – he rips it away – it has not torn skin. On and on, go! Go! Run! And he sprints on, urging his Men forward, sometimes turning, ducking, dodging, thrusting his sword deep. And Ithilien arrows burning past him – saving him from a quick death – and there! There it is! Another wail! Sweet Eru, run!

Crumbling bridge, it cannot support the weight of these Men. Running across it, slipping forward, as the Anduin explodes around him with misfired catapult projectiles. Soon soon soon one will hit and this will all be finished – and and and…

Jump!

And he has just enough sense to grab young Iorlas by the shoulder and push him into the water before the entire bridge collapses in on itself.

Boromir forced himself away from the wall with a snort. An uneven step backwards, and then wheeling around, back towards the glow of the tavern.


	8. The Dreamer (Faramir)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the twenty-ninth of Nri in 2885, the Haradrim forces were defeated at the Crossing of Poros and a legendary tavern acquired its name.

It was late. Most of _The Laughing Oliphaunt_ had emptied by now. They still remained – this weary group – though most of their own conversation had softened to a gentle hum. They were contented now to sit and drink in silence.

Faramir knew little of these Men. They were of his brother’s Guard, and he rarely met with them if not those occasional visits he paid to Osgiliath or Minas Tirith. Nay, his battles were fought in stealth, in silence, under the cool trees, with the forest singing a quiet song in his ear, instructing him. Today, he had told Mablung and Damrod to return with the Rangers, to stay with the wounded, to send the letters to any bereft families. And Faramir had gone forth to Minas Tirith with his brother, intent on speaking with their father, on seeking his counsel. For, apart from Boromir’s report on Osgiliath, Faramir had also another concern…

He shook away the creeping feeling – that prickling of the skin on his skull; it happened whenever he thought of it – and instead adjusted himself to let Boromir pass. His brother fell clumsily back into his seat, chuckling slightly and grabbing Faramir’s shoulder to pull himself up.

Yet Faramir could not keep it to himself. Not anymore. And so as soon as Boromir was somewhat upright, Faramir leaned in, brought his face close.

“Brother…”

“Aye?” Boromir asked in mock gravity.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Speak.”

“’Tis an important matter. ‘Tis…” he glanced around, “’tis a private affair.”

Boromir’s lips quirked. He whispered, slurring, “Speak softly then.”

An exasperated sigh. But Faramir relented, brought himself closer, and Boromir arched his head over, curious.

“I have dreamt… something strange.” Faramir watched for Boromir’s reaction, saw that his older brother was still half-smiling, waiting for more. Faramir continued, “I believe it to be a riddle. ‘Tis like a chant, speaking within my mind as I sink into sleep. And e’er on, again and again, it is the same.”

Boromir’s half-grin widened. “Does it involve a fair strumpet?”

“Nay, nay,” Faramir hissed, “nay, brother, do not jest. ‘Tis a riddle, I am sure of it. I wish to speak with father of it.”

Boromir eyed him skeptically. Finally, leaning forward, so that Faramir could smell the alcohol on his tongue, he whispered, “What does it say?”

And so, Faramir inhaled, glanced around, and began to repeat softly:

“ _Seek for the sword that was broken,_  
In Imladris it dwells…”


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the twenty-ninth of Nri in 2885, the Haradrim forces were defeated at the Crossing of Poros and a legendary tavern acquired its name.

_Let them run! Let them charge!_  
Hear them laugh, “Free the barge!”  
Burn them high! Burn them wide!  
Hear them laugh, “Ol’phaunt hide!”  
Loose the arrow! Nock the bow!  
Hear them laugh, “Far too slow!  
Cut them down, those Haradrim,  
Far too arrogant, so they seem!”

And they swing their tusks,  
Grey and booming,  
And the oliphaunts laugh,  
“Fair skies looming!  
Drink with us, tiny beasts,  
You’ve killed the masters,  
Time for feasts!”

Oh, drink with the oliphaunt!  
Let him laugh!  
For he chortles and he chuckles  
If you buy him a draught!  
Oh, sing for the oliphaunt!  
Let him listen!  
And he’ll get ye good an’ drunk  
Enough to send ye pissin’!

Just kill the swarthy Southron,  
Drive your dagger through his gut,  
For so the ol’phaunt dictates,  
To free him from his rut!

Lusting for Swert-blood,  
Those oliphaunts, they’ll bandy,  
For every Southron skull you crack,  
You’ll get one pint of brandy!


End file.
